


sleep dwell upon thine eyes

by ivelostmyspectacles



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (listen the seasons have been slow burn the three weeks were quick burn), Canon Asexual Character, Cuddling & Snuggling, Developing Relationship, Falling In Love, Gay Stuttering, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Post-Episode 159, Quick Burn, Running Away, Sharing a Bed, Sleepy Cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-25 06:01:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21671119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivelostmyspectacles/pseuds/ivelostmyspectacles
Summary: “I’m not making you sleep on thecouch,Martin.”“It’s– it’s fine, there’s… there’s enough room, here. For both of us.”aka the safehouse has one bed
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 52
Kudos: 744





	sleep dwell upon thine eyes

It takes nearly ten hours to get to Scotland by bus. 

It’s high nerves and tense energy, looking over their shoulders the whole way. They had held hands on the way from The Lonely, Jon practically pulling Martin behind him, and then they’d both fled The Institute without stopping to check on anyone there. In the moment, they had been selfish; they had been as they’d gone back to Jon’s, too, nervous and frantic, to pack a bag (clothes, food, work) and then they had just… gotten on a bus, and gone.

They’re overly careful, checking the shadows and barely sitting still. They take as many precautions as possible, and it takes nearly the ten hours to get to Scotland.

Daisy’s cabin is quiet, secluded and nondescript. They stand in the front and take it in, dark and unlived in. There’s a thin layer of dust. Jon wonders how long it’s been since Daisy’s been here, and then Knows, and then stops wondering.

Martin, barely having said twenty words since stepping out of The Lonely, pale and shivering, breaks the silence. “… home sweet home,” he murmurs.

He’s right. It’s beautiful, the cabin and Martin’s voice. But it is, in its way, so unbelievable that he, in that moment… in that moment, inappropriately, Jon can’t help but  _ laugh. _

It’s a slightly wild thing, born of too many nights without sleep and too many statements and too much  _ worrying, _ and of relief of finding Martin and stopping Peter, and the sheer lunacy that Elias is Jonah Magnus and that the hunters had come and the thing that wasn’t Sasha had been released and The Beholding beneath his skin and the fact that they’ve gone ten hours to settle into this cozy little safehouse and that the first thing Martin’s said that he’s sounded most like the Martin Jon’s known is  _ home sweet home _ and– and–– oh, Christ, Jon can’t help but laugh.

Maybe Martin looks at him like he’s crazy. He probably is, now. It’s hard to tell. But, in the gloom, he thinks he sees Martin…  _ smile, _ and, for now, everything is okay.

He thinks the shock sets in soon after. Martin shivers so hard his teeth chatter and, after a check if there’s running water– there is– goes to take a shower, mumbling about cold and salt sticking to his skin. Jon lets him, and claims the couch while he waits. There’s only one bed, and he’s smaller than Martin for the sofa. Besides, Martin deserves to rest comfortably.

He gives it his level best to stay awake until he can hear the shower turn off, but he’s suddenly so exhausted he doesn’t think he manages it. He has a vague recollection of a hazy, quiet Martin, eyes rimmed in red, smoothing a blanket over him, and then Jon sleeps like the dead.

He’s less comfortable in the morning. The sofa  _ isn’t _ as agreeable as he’d thought, and the aches and pains are… well, it’s not like they’re uncommon, anyway, but anything to avoid them elsewise would be nice. Martin catches him rubbing at an aching part of his spine later in the morning, and Jon smiles ruefully. “I’ve had worse.” It’s true.

Martin frowns over their breakfast– Ready Brek Chocolate, straight from Jon’s pantry– and looks at him a little closer. “You should take the bed tonight.”

_ “I’ll _ sleep better on the sofa, trust me.” He sips at his tea. It tastes like heaven. He knows he should lose the rose-colored lenses here. “You deserve the rest.”

“So do you,” Martin protests, but Jon does, eventually, get him to drop it.

He has had worse. So, so much worse.

Still, he doesn’t sleep well that night. Not wanting to somehow wake Martin, he tries to keep the tossing and turning to a minimum and he’s miserable by morning. But it’s not as though he hasn’t been fueled by only a few hours of sleep before. That’s the norm, really, and he smiles and tries not to let Martin look at him too closely come morning, or after he dozes off while reading in a ray of sunshine he’s claimed beneath the tiny, warm window, later that afternoon.

He doesn’t mind.

They venture out on the third day. It’s… unsettling, to walk down to the nearby village with the threat of looming supernatural occurrences following them. But nothing happens. It’s uneventful, and nice. The town is oddly charming in its simplicity, and Martin gets excited over the most simple of things. (Hesitantly excited, a shadow of his old self. He’s still looking over his shoulder, too, still afraid to express a proper opinion– or, well, afraid to say he  _ likes _ anything at all, and Jon understands the feeling.) They buy food that isn’t instant porridge or dry cereal, and Martin buys himself a hooded sweatshirt and joggers to sleep in until he can get back to Stockwell to get his things. A herd of cows startles them on the way home. Jon doesn’t correct himself when thinking of the cabin as home. It’s more of a home than he’s been used to, these past few years, and it feels right.

He’s exhausted by day’s end, and Martin looks the same. They trade stories of things the other has missed while they eat dinner. Most of it’s depressing, really, and they’re both, he doesn’t know,  _ sullen, _ when they part for bed. But conversations they need to have.

Martin still smiles as he turns the lamp off, once Jon’s curled up on the sofa again. “Night, Jon.”

“Goodnight, Martin.”

He sleeps until just past midnight, and then it’s a lost battle again. It really grates on him this time; he honestly isn’t sure if he  _ needs _ to sleep, really, anymore, but the lack of it when he wants it is… upsetting, in any case. He’s still tired, and stressed, and it isn’t an ideal situation.

It’s gone half two when he rolls onto his back and groans in discomfort, and then winces again when Martin speaks somewhere behind him.

“Come to bed, Jon.”

Trying to pretend he was asleep would be ludicrous now, so Jon gives up. “I’m not making you sleep on the  _ couch, _ Martin,” he says, and if he’s testy, he doesn’t mean to be, but he’s tired and stressed and this  _ isn’t _ an ideal situation–

“It’s–” Martin pauses. His voice trails into nothing and then picks up, quieter, “it’s fine, there’s… there’s enough room, here. For both of us.”

Jon doesn’t get it. Then again, he  _ is _ running on too little sleep and a headache throbbing beneath his skull that he desperately hopes  _ isn’t _ The Beholding trying to bitch at him for not doing statements for three whole days. “What?” he complains, and arches his back against the stinging ache that’s settled in deep there.

“The bed,” Martin repeats, and then takes a breath. “It’s big enough for both of us. We can share.”

Jon gets it… but he doesn’t. “What?” he repeats, because he’s certain he’s just heard Martin ask him to sleep in bed with him. He may be tired, but he’s not deaf. He’s just…  _ what? _

“I– I mean, we need to sleep,” Martin mumbles. “You need to sleep. We  _ deserve _ to sleep, Jon.”

_ We do,  _ he doesn’t say, because there’s other things on his mind.

“So… so I’ll just sleep this way, and you can have the other side of the bed, and… that's fine. There’s no point to us being uncomfortable when there’s… room for both of us, yeah? So, just…” He sounds like he gestures, probably vaguely. He still sounds awkward and uncomfortable in a way that settles into Jon’s soul, but… groggy and pleading in a way that makes Jon push himself into a sitting position, and then… agree.

“Okay,” he says softly, and pretends something in him doesn’t thrill at the idea. He just needs sleep. And sleeping next to Martin sounds… nice, all things considered. ‘All things’ being his serious, nagging urge to not let the man out of his sight the past three days.

“Oh,” Martin breathes, like he hadn’t  _ expected _ Jon to say yes. And then, “o–okay. Right. Um, do you want a certain side, or…?”

“Just stay where you’re at,” he says, and then… goes to get in bed with Martin.

The significance isn’t lost on him. He isn’t an  _ idiot. _ He’d slept with Georgie, in both innocent and carnal senses. He knows how Martin feels, or felt. He knows that he…  _ feels, _ something he doesn’t quite understand but could be honestly as simple as  _ loneliness _ even though he definitely doesn’t want to throw that particular word around right now. He just wants to stay near Martin, now that he’s made certain he’s as safe as he can be, and he wants to give him a reason to smile again, after all of this. Was that the love Martin talked about, clung to, in regards to his own (past?) feelings towards Jon? Was that what everyone  _ boasted _ about in regards to relationships and partners and spouses? Jon didn’t know. He still doesn’t.

The Knowledge doesn’t come, on that one, and he’s… disappointed.

He eases beneath the heavy blankets, anyway, and sighs a little through his teeth as he settles into the mattress that truly feels like heaven. He needs to sleep. Martin’s right.

“Better…?” Martin manages, and Jon nods before he remembers they’re facing opposite directions and he can’t see him.

“Much.”

“Good.” Martin squirms a little, but there’s enough space that they’re out of each other’s space. “Good… get some sleep, Jon.”

“Yeah…” He clears his throat and continues, tugging the pillow he’s claimed as his own a little closer. It  _ is _ comfy. “You too.”

It’s probably a good thing that he falls asleep before he can really think too hard about the situation in its entirety. He sleeps well.

Their sleeping arrangement lasts for another four days before Jon wakes up come four am, and finds himself curled up against Martin’s back. It’s surprising, although… not unwelcome. Martin’s  _ warm. _ Christ, he’s like a furnace and Jon briefly thinks– a little wildly– he’s been sitting in front of the stove, poking at chunks of firewood this past week, when he could have been curled up against Martin instead. The heat suffuses into Jon’s cheeks at that, and he rolls over, back to his own side of the bed that feels too cold.

He can’t get back to sleep, though, so he lays, quiet, and listens to the sound of Martin’s gentle snoring.

He is nothing if not– unconsciously– a creature of habit, he decides, head resting on Martin’s shoulder. He wonders if he’s becoming predictable in the middle of all this mess.

He’s been caught this time, though.

The ceiling hadn’t been so interesting the past week, but Jon can’t take his eyes off it now. He can make out all the detail in the woodworking. And the dust. God, they ought to clean up around here. “If you want–” he starts, again, ready to roll over and grab his glasses and go, he doesn’t know,  _ read a book _ instead of laying here, but– 

“You don’t have to.” Martin cuts him off, again. “I…” He laughs a little, arm shifting beneath his head. “I didn’t really peg you as a cuddler? But I’m– I’m not complaining.”

“… okay,” Jon murmurs, and doesn’t move.

Jon jumps at the touch at his shoulder. It’s more bad habit than anything nowadays, an ingrained urge that  _ touch is bad _ after so many… questionable experiences. He’d never been one for it, anyway, although that’s… moot, considering he’s been sleeping next to Martin like this for days now.

Martin just hasn’t  _ touched _ him.

“Sorry–”

“No, er– it’s fine,” Jon says, as quickly as he can say the words. “I…”  _ like it. I think.  _ “It’s… nice,” he says instead, and licks his lips against the nerves threatening to choke him. He likes it like he’s liked sleeping with him, the past few days. He doesn’t say that, either.

“Oh.” Martin’s voice is very small, and then he carefully passes the pad of his thumb along Jon’s shoulder.

Jon  _ likes _ it, although he doesn’t know how to say.

Martin laughs, just a little, but Jon feels it easily beneath where his head’s pillowed on Martin’s shoulder. He doesn’t want to ask, wants to go back to sleep, but he’s never been good at  _ not _ asking when curiosity takes him. 

“What…?” he manages, curling around him a little more.

“You really are sleep ugly.”

… Jon lifts his head, pulls back just enough to squint at Martin through eyes still heavy with sleep.  _ “What?” _

“Sorry, no, I just–” Martin laughs again, turning away from Jon’s halfhearted glare to hide his smile. “It’s just, something– something Tim mentioned, before, before… just– it’s nice. To see you this way. Sleep rumpled and… well, normal.”

… fair, he thinks. Maybe. He is  _ tired. _ “You don’t look much better,” he manages, and has to spit out a piece of hair when it gets stuck against his lips. Christ, he needs a haircut.

Martin’s laughter does the job of dragging him back to full consciousness, even if his mind stays lazy and slow. He feels oddly content in the confines of the cabin, with Martin’s arm snug around him. He stays where he is, awake and comfortable.

Two weeks in, Martin clears the distance to kiss him.

Jon doesn’t expect it at all.

No, he isn’t an idiot. There’s elements here that are easily recognizable from both past relationships and any piece of popular media featuring romance out there, but… it’s fine. Jon likes it, and… he feels safe, here, with Martin. He wouldn’t mind it continuing. But Martin  _ kissing  _ him startles him in ways he has tried not to think about in… quite some time.

It’s probably his fault, though, he probably missed… the cue. A cue. The moment where Martin had declared his intentions without needing to say anything, and Jon hadn’t stopped him.

Still.

“Er–” 

He doesn’t quite know how to express it, anyway, so it’s just as well when the embarrassed look on Martin’s face turns to one of mortified guilt.

“O–Oh– I’m, um, I’m sorry–”

“No–”

“– I didn’t– I should have asked, I’m sorry–”

“No,” Jon says again. “I’m just… I–I don’t–”

“That’s fine–”

“I’d like to keep doing this,” Jon manages, and he wonders why it’s so goddamn difficult to get the words out. To express how he  _ likes _ this. (But then, Martin had been the same, coming here, so maybe it’s no wonder it’s a…  _ them _ problem. An the-archival-staff-has-been-through-hell problem.) He looks between them, a flick of his eyes in the space of mattress that only barely separates them right now. “If possible. Just–” So much struggling.  _ So _ much struggling to say what he needs to, now–

But Martin’s looking at him already, regardless. Still a little awkward, but… focused. He stares for a moment, and then… nods. Slowly, and then with something like relief in his eyes. “Okay. Yeah,” he says. “We can keep doing this, that’s good. And we don’t have to do  _ that. _ If you don’t want.”

Jon lets out a shaky breath as he nearly sags into the mattress. Then he reaches for Martin’s hand, taking it in his own and slotting their fingers together in an age-old motion he’s nearly forgotten, too. It’s familiar, and… good. 

Christ, it’s too good for him.

Martin’s talking about… Jon doesn’t know. Since he’d gone back to London– “someone has to go back, Jon, and it absolutely  _ isn’t _ going to be you so don’t even ask–” they’d had mostly anything they could have wanted to keep them busy. Clothes, food, a seemingly endless supply of crosswords, books and downloaded movies and information on what was going on back in London without them (not much.) So Jon thinks Martin’s talking about… whatever book he’d read. Or maybe it had been the local newspaper. Or…

Honestly, the words blur. Whatever he’s talking about isn’t  _ really _ important, and his voice seems to get more and more soothing everyday. Jon misses words and pauses, and then he misses topics; when he comes back to himself, his head is pillowed on Martin’s shoulder, and they’re both asleep sitting on the couch. The blanket wrapped around them is thick and warm and smells like detergent, and the air’s warm and heavy from the wood burning stove.

The urge to put his head back against Martin and go back to sleep is so strong of an urge it almost hurts, but he knows sleeping here will do neither of them any favors.  _ He _ knows; he’d been the one to sleep here for three days, uncomfortable and alone.

So, they need to move. They definitely… need to move.

It takes a minute, but Jon works himself up to it, untangling himself from the blanket and from Martin. He staggers as he gets up, stocking feet and a jumper of Martin’s that falls down past his thighs. “Martin,” he yawns. “Martin…”

“Mmm…”

“Martin.”

His eyes open, a sliver. “What…?” he mumbles, lips barely moving. His head droops a little further, and Jon laughs.

“Come to bed, Martin.”

“Okay,” Martin replies, groggy.

Jon does his best to help him up, and holds his hand as they stumble to bed together.

_ “– would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest” _

**Author's Note:**

> you knew I was gonna write a Scotland fic eventually, it just _took me awhile_ to find time, strength, and energy. my god they're in love. they're so in love
> 
> (they've got a few days left before the apocalypse starts. enjoy it, boys)


End file.
